Be Human, Holmes
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: It's been years since Hal stepped onto English soil and can't help himself when he meets a girl called Molly Hooper and how Molly helped Sherlock survive the fall.
1. Part 1

**London, 1901**

As the fog descended upon London an eerie stillness seemed to envelop the city along with it. The usual drunken, euphoric shouts of sailors, soldiers and labourers had turned into hushed, quiet, sombre voices.

Tiny urchins stayed indoors or at least lurked in the corners where they would not be seen. Even the whores kept themselves to themselves – which was an achievement for them.

London was mourning.

It was mourning the death of its queen – The Queen, The Empress, at the very dawn of a brave new century. A century that held much for the human race.

But one man cared not for the dead queen. He barely registered the feelings of despair that clung to the atmosphere. All he could think about was how sweet the air had become.

It had been such a long time since he'd set foot on home soil, on English soil, that he allowed himself the pleasure of feeling overjoyed by the moment.

But what he craved – no needed, at that moment was the taste of the sweet blood of an English Rose. Oh, it had been so long! Despairingly long…but patience had its rewards.

English blood had a distinct taste…indeed, one that, just like the greatest of drugs, once is tried, never really leaves your system. It was all very well drinking the blood of harlots in Budapest, orphans in St. Petersburg and drunken sailors in Naples but in all honesty, they tasted inferior.

He paused once he reached the edge of the alley. He tapped his cane lightly on the cobblestones – he knew his dress was some twenty years out of date but surely if he stayed up long enough either a whore or a whore's associate would notice him.

He knew he wouldn't be able to get what he wanted straight away but he supposed tainted blood was better than none. After all, no respectable woman would be out at this ungodly hour.

The street was calm and quiet. There were no movements or sounds. Once the silence was broken by a hansom speeding down the street. The horse's hooves clattered against the cobblestone along with the sound of the horse's disgruntled huffing seemed to multiply tenfold by the silence.

But just as quickly as it had appeared it disappeared around the corner, plunging the street back into deplorable silence. By that point his ears had become accustomed to the quiet and strained to hear any other sounds.

It was then he heard it; the unmistakeable clicking of heels on cobblestone.

A smile still played on his lips as another figure emerged from across the street. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she sauntered over to him. Her hair honey blonde hung loosely around her shoulders, showing that delectable neck. She had a fair complexion for a Lady of the Night.

Maybe he was going to get a bit of luck after all…

"Hullo sir. You waitin' for anyone in particular…?"

"No one whatsoever."

"Oh well ain't that good luck?" She chirped cheerfully. "Cos I ain't looking for no one either. What's your name, sir?"

"Henry York. Friends call me Hal. You call me sir."

"Very well…sir."

"How much?"

"Oh not much, sir…nothing much at all. You're dressed a bit queerly sir. You borrowed your grandfather's clothes or somethin'?"

"I have been out of the country for a very long time. Now…shall we?"

"Oh indeed we shall sir." She scurried over to him and placed his hands in her. She kissed his cheeks whilst beginning to whisper the most inappropriate things in his ear.

But Hal was only transfixed by the veins that pulsed underneath that deliciously pale skin.

He ran his nails softly down her neck. The whore shivered under his touch. Her blood had quickened and Hal had to resist the urge to bite her then and there. Instead, he just smiled.

The whore looked down and giggled shamefully. "I think you're ready, sir."

"You know…I think you may be right. Let's not bother with the conventions, shall we? I think right ere will do as I certainly cannot wait that long."

"Oh very well sir!" The whore pulled him back into the alley until they were eclipsed by fog and darkness.

The whore pressed herself up against a wall as she struggled to plant kisses on Hal's neck. Height difference had something to do with that. Frustrated by her failing attempts, Hal hoisted her up and leant her back of the wall and he planted kisses along her neck.

The whore purred happily. Hal doubted if she'd ever had this kind of attention before.

He could feel the blood practically straining against her skin.

"Tell me child, do you believe in nightmarish creatures?"

"I ain't no child anymore." She growled at Hal continued to kiss up her neck and along her jaw line.

Oh really? Because you should my dear and do you know why? Creatures like that exist. They are real and they lurk in the shadows waiting for you to fall. Hellish beings that will tear your throat out before you have time to scream."

The whore clutched the back of Hal's jacket as she wrapped her legs around his hips.

"Why are you telling me this, sir?"

"Because my dear…_ I am one of them_." He bared his fangs and allowed his pupils to cloud over.

The only noise the whore made was a small strangled gasp. Hal drank greedily savouring the liquid that poured down his throat. Oh she was delicious. Once Hal believed he had drunk enough, he stepped back and allowed the whore's body to pool around his feet.

He took his handkerchief out of pocket and dabbed the sides of his mouth gently. He licked the remainder of the liquid off his lips. The whore wasn't fully English…there was something else.

A fiery sensation filled his throat. He coughed and panted as it became stronger and stronger. The aftertaste as spicy as a native dish of the Raj

"Shit…" He sighed.

Welsh. The whore was half Welsh. Hal groaned in annoyance, he knew he'd be suffering for a week. He didn't particularly favour Welsh blood mainly because it played hell with his stomach.

Above the slums he could just make out the glowing outline of the sun. It filled the sky with amber rays. Minutes later the street was lit by the early morning sun.

Hal decided it was time to take his leave before anyone could see him standing near the body of the whore. Not that anyone would really care, but he didn't particularly want to be seen in this neighbourhood. After all, he had his reputation to uphold.

He made his retreat back down the alley; he retraced his footsteps easily – even if his London had changed barely beyond recognition.

The grim squalor of the slums melted away into fashionable high streets until he came to the doors of Claridge's Hotel. The Porter was as awake and as vigilant as a Porter was expected to be.

"Good morning, Mr. York." He tipped his black cap and Hal nodded in response.

"Good morning indeed, Beates."

Beates opened the door as Hal brushed past him. He crossed the chequered flooring and swiftly made his way up the stairs. Politely tipping his hat to passing newlyweds.

Hal kept his head low as he walked; he replayed his encounter with the whore in his mind. Hal had always prided himself on being proud of his fashion sense and so the whore's comment about wearing his grandfather's clothes had riled him slightly.

He needed new clothes…but the question was where to get them from? He couldn't step out looking like this in broad daylight. If he could be ridiculed by a lowly whore what would respectable people think?

The thoughts troubled him until he collided with a bundle of white sheets.

"Oh sir!" A voice squeaked from underneath the pile of sheets on the floor. "I am so terribly sorry! I'm afraid I did not see you there."

"Clearly." He growled. He took a deep breath to regain his composure before smiling gently. "Still, no harm done." He watched as a young woman with startlingly innocent features stumbled back to her feet.

He made no move to help her. Her face was flushed crimson and she looked highly embarrassed. In some strange way, she reminded him of a startled deer he once saw in the Highlands before Fergus shot it.

"I am so sorry, sir."

"Like I said, quite alright Miss…"

"Hooper. M-Molly Hooper, sir."

"Well Miss Hooper…" It was then an idea hit Hal. "I would be much obliged if you could bring up a measuring tape, pencil and notepad up to my room."

"Yes sir. W-who are you, sir?"

"Mr. York. Mr. Harry York."

Molly nodded. "Right away, sir." And with that Molly scampered away.

Hal strode away in the other direction. He didn't bother looking back at the idiotic maid. Two hundred years ago, he'd have had that girl executed for such stupidity. What was the world coming to?

He was glad to note he reached his room without being accosted by any more lowly servants. He slipped inside and practically collapsed into a Chesterfield leather chair. He rested his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of feeling full.

But it didn't last long. Soon, the lingering taste on his tongue became too much to bear and he needed more. He crossed the room to where he hid his portable decanter and poured himself a generous amount of AB-.

The glorious liquid slithered down his throat, teasing every taste bud as it went down. Perhaps to a human AB- could be compared to an exquisite exotic wine. Something beautifully delicious but in agonisingly short supply.

Just as he was about to savour another slip, there was a timid knock on the door. Hal sighed and hid the glass behind a vase of flowers. He opened the door and was shyly greeted by Molly Hooper.

"I did not expect you to be so swift." Hal commented as he took the measuring tape, pencil and notepad out of Molly's hands. Her hands were soft, softer than he thought a maid's hands would be.

"Is there anything else you need, sir?"

"Yes. I want you to wait out here."

"Um…yes, sir."

Hal closed the door on the confused girl and started to measure his body with the measuring tape. Once he'd measured all the areas that were needed to create an outfit, he wrote the measurements down on the notepad.

He tore the sheet of paper out of the notepad and opened the door once more. Miss Hooper's back had been to the door as she waited and with a startled jump she turned round to face Mr. York. He stuffed the note into her hand along with an excessive amount of money.

"I want you to go to the nearest tailors. Give him my measurements and tell him I want the clothes within the hour. Tell him I'll pay twice the rate. All the garments must be black, except for the shirt. Do you understand?"

Molly nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl. Now, if you do not return within the hour or if you are tempted by such a vast amount of money and do not return at all I assure you, you will regret it." Hal lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. "Is that clear, Miss Hooper?"

"Y-yes, sir. V-very clear, sir." Molly's startled brown eyes made her appear ten years younger.

"Good. Now go." Hal waved her away and Molly darted off.

* * *

><p>Precisely an hour later there came another knock on the door. Hal rose sluggishly from his chair and stretched slowly. He half heartedly greeted Miss Hooper as she placed the bundles wrapped in brown paper onto the bed.<p>

The girl seemed indescribably pleased with herself and she coyly smiled up at Mr. York. He half heartedly smiled back. He handed Molly a pair of scissors and returned back to his chair.

"If you would be so kind as to open the packages?"

"Oh, of course, sir."

As Molly went about opening the brown packages Hal briefly admired the level of dedication Molly put into her work. He nodded to show his approval when she held up garments for him to look at.

Molly hummed to herself as she placed the clothes in Mr. York's wardrobe. Once she'd placed them all neatly in their rightful place she closed the oak door. It was heavier than she thought and caught her finger in the door.

She yelped pitifully and placed her finger in her mouth. She saw Mr. York's head peer at her from the chair. He frowned at her.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, sir. I've just hurt my finger, that's all." She took her finger out of her mouth to survey the damage. She tutted and sighed once she saw the blood run down her finger.

She was so transfixed on her finger that she barely noticed that Mr. York was standing inches away from her.

She jumped when she saw him peer into her face. His eyes widened in what she took to be concern. It was when they were inches away from each other that Molly actually _looked _at Mr. York.

He had the most gorgeous brown eyes. She'd seen eyes similar to his once, when she had Winston for a birthday present one year. Winston being the little chocolate Labrador that she adored.

She noticed the way his brown hair curled so delicately around his forehead and the day old stubble that darkened his pale skin. He had such an innocent face. Like one of the cherubs on a Christmas card.

He was so very handsome. He looked searchingly at her, looking deep into her eyes. Molly could feel the breath stop in her chest. But he looked so very tired, he looked exhausted.

"_Molly_…" Her name sounded like velvet when those soft lips whispered it. She felt his hands curled around her bonnet. With one swift movement she felt her soft brown hair curled around her shoulders.

She felt his hands run through her gently. He kissed her cheek gently and whispered in her ear;

"Let me see."

Molly lifted her finger up to show him. Hal took her hand gently in his and brushed his lips against it.

"Oh poor girl…" He murmured softly, which sent shivers up Molly's spine. Hal sighed softly.

"W-what is it?"

Hal smiled joyfully, making Molly's knees go weak. "Oh Molly…" He whispered breathlessly. "You're AB-."

* * *

><p>Lestrade crossed the chequered flooring to the reception desk where Dimmock was waiting. He held the log book in his hands and passed it over to Lestrade once he arrived.<p>

"Here." Dimmock pointed to a name on the register.

"Henry York? Is this some kind of joke?" Lestrade frowned.

"I don't know, but that's the name this son of a – sorry. That's the name he put down when he hired the suite."

"Who was she?"

"Maid who worked here. Started about a month back. Unmarried. Her name was Molly Hooper." There was an unmistakable sadness in Dimmock's eyes.

"Molly Hooper. Right. She's still up there?"

"Yes sir…I should warn you. It's not a pretty sight."

"Murder never is."

"Yes but this is…" Dimmock paused to find the right word. "Truly _barbaric_."

Lestrade closed the log and placed it on the reception desk. "Right. I'll bare that in mind. Show me where she is."

Dimmock nodded and led Lestrade up the staircase. The suite was situated on the third door to the left. Dimmock paused with his hand on the doorknob. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and put it over his face.

"It might be a good idea if you do the same, sir." Dimmock advised Lestrade.

Lestrade sighed and pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket. He placed it over his nose and nodded for Dimmock to continue. Dimmock opened the door and stepped inside.

Lestrade almost choked on the rancid stench that hit his nose. His gag reflex started automatically and it took all his effort to calm his stomach.

"I know…I did the same." Dimmock admitted bashfully.

The body of Molly Hooper lay on the four poster bed. Her eyes were closed and her body utterly lifeless. Her hand was draped over her breasts as the remainder of her clothes lay scattered around the room.

But the most frightening thing was the glass pipe that was fed roughly into Molly's throat. Lestrade could still see blood trickling down the pipe and onto the carpet. Her throat had been completely mutilated.

"Are there any signs of sexual activity?" Lestrade hissed through gritted teeth behind his handkerchief.

"No, sir. There are no marks on her body to suggest that they conducted intercourse."

"How long has she been here?"

"A few hours. No more than four. The porter reported her absence from one of her duties and one of the Bell Boys said they'd seen her enter this room. That was when the porter found her."

"And I take it Mr. York was long gone?"

"He took everything besides these." Dimmock gestured to a pile of clothes that Lestrade remembered his father wearing some twenty years ago. "The porter said Mr. York returned at around three, this morning."

"Does our Mr. York have any relatives in London?" Lestrade knelt down by the clothes and began to rummage through them.

"None, sir. No one knows what his business was in London."

Lestrade stood up. "Alright. Get a statement from the porter and the Bell Boy, along with anyone who thinks they came into contact with Mr. York. Get a description of the man."

Dimmock nodded. "Yes sir." Dimmock left the room and closed the door behind him.

Lestrade made his way over to the corpse of Molly Hooper. He cast a sad eye over her mangled body.

"No need to guess what killed you?" He whispered as he ran a thumb gently over Molly's hand. She was freezing cold. "The devil didn't even have the decency to let you keep your modesty…you poor girl. I promise you we'll catch this sick bastard. You have my word Miss Hooper. I'm afraid I have to tell your family now. The Police Surgeon will be here shortly. Goodbye Miss Hooper." Lestrade slowly pulled his hand back.

Molly Hooper's eyes flew open. Her pupils were clouded in black and from her snarling mouth fangs protruded. Her head turned towards the Detective Inspector, who was in an understandable state of shock.

"W-what the fucking hell?" Lestrade stared at her in disbelief.

Molly tore the pipe from her throat in one swift movement and clambered off the bed, her eyes never leaving Lestrade. Lestrade stumbled backwards, stuttering incoherent nonsense. Molly tilted her heads sideways and smiled.

The Detective screamed.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

The red Afghan sun set slowly in the distance as the patrol car rolled through the desert. Even with the sun disappearing from the distance the heat still beat down on the seven men in the truck.

Underneath their desert helmets beads of sweat rolled down their faces. They were all on edge, they couldn't not be. In this place death was seem to be just around the corner, constantly stalking them.

Two weeks ago was the last time there was another fatality. Two of the poor sods, they were caught in cross-fire.

The atmosphere was tense to say the least. Mind you, seven men, all cramped into a heavily armoured truck with very little fresh oxygen circling around didn't exactly help the situation.

But Murray and Weiss did their best to keep the mood up by telling dirty jokes and teasing other men. No one honestly seemed to mind, it was a welcome distraction really.

They passed through village after village during their patrol down the winding, dust clouded road. They hadn't planned to stop, especially since they were all eager to return to their beds, but that was before Howard spilled his guts up.

The men had practically leapt out of the truck and away from the fowl stench, grumbling quietly. As the only man left in the truck with Howard and as their Captain and the only medical personnel there, John Watson took it upon himself to haul the young man out of the truck and shove his head down the nearest well.

Which, lucky for him, was only a couple of feet away from where the truck had grinded to a standstill. Their driver poked his head out of the window and rather insensitively shouted;

"If that little shit's been sick in my truck, he'll be licking it up."

"Alright, Lieutenant Johnstone. Calm down." John shouted back as he loosened the helmet strap around Howard's throat and slipped the backpack off the younger man's heaving shoulders.

John kept his hands on Howard's shoulders, more for support than anything else as the sounds of Howard's retching filled the peaceful night's air. He barely registered someone's hands on his own until Sergeant Shkor of the Afghan army shook him gently.

"Captain Watson. We should leave here, quickly." The desperation in the Sergeant's face shook him slightly.

"We're not going anywhere until Howard's stopped being…ill." He responded firmly.

"But surely you could sedate him? He would not choke on his own vomit because we would be watching him. Please Captain, this place is not safe."

"What are you talking about, Shkor? There's no bugger left here."

Which was the truth. The village consisted of no more than ten huts (all uninhabited), a Pistachio tree and a well that Howard was currently pouring his stomach contents in to.

"It's not the people that are the danger, sir. It's the reason why they left."

"Shkor, what the hell are you talking –?" John stopped midsentence. He heard something rustle in the shrubs behind the tree.

Shkor instinctively raised his gun to the source of the noise. John stepped back and raised his own gun. He silently signalled for Shkor to take the badly shaking Howard.

John moved slowly, his footprints were heavy and deep as he tried to make the least amount of noise possible. His heart pounded in his ears as wave after wave of adrenaline pulsed through his body.

God it felt good.

He peered around the edge of the tree, barrel of his gun protruding first. He didn't honestly know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't a wide eyed, half naked child covered in dirt, cradling what looked like a broken arm.

John stared horrified into the child's terrified ones. Whether it was the paternal instinct in him or his doctors instinct he was unsure but either way, he dropped his gun and knelt down in front of the child.

The child, a boy, pushed himself as far as he could away from him, burying himself deeper into the roots of the tree. John placed his hands in front of him, so the boy could see where they were.

He licked his lips slowly; trying to remember the Pashto he'd been taught. He cursed himself for not paying more attention. He decided to go for it anyway and see what happened, whether the boy understood or not was a different matter.

"Khozzéezzem?" _Hurt?_

The boy stared at him warily, his green eyes narrowing intently.

"Ho." _Yes. _

John could see the little boy blink back the tears as he shifted slightly. The boy's voice was hoarse and quiet.

"Wáli?" _Why?_

The boy's eyes darted left to right, looking everywhere. He lowered his voice from a whisper almost to a growl. "Leewe-sarray."

John frowned; he didn't understand what the boy had said. He understood the second bit; '_sarray_' was man…something about a man, possibly? John knew he needed to gain the boy's trust if he wanted to treat him.

"John." He said softly as he pointed to himself. "John."

"Lemar." The boy whispered.

"Lemar. Good, okay. Oh God, what's doctor? Shit…ah well, I'll go for it. I'm a –"

Lemar's screams filled the air, making John freeze. "Leewe-sarray! Leewe-sarray! Wélem! Wélem!" _Shoot! Shoot!_

Even if John knew what Lemar had said, he couldn't act upon it because as soon as he saw the pure terror in Lemar's face his body froze.

Everything stopped.

The sounds of gun shots, men shouting and screaming was drowned out by his own heartbeat. A constant drum beat that seemed to be the only thing that his mind could comprehend.

That was before he felt the pain.

Oh dear God, the pain. Something was slicing – tearing through his shoulder. He tried to scream but he couldn't, something caught in his throat, the same thick liquid poured out of his mouth, spilling down his bullet proof vest.

He felt his body connect with the hard ground. It was then he felt the heat. The god-awful heat that worse than a thousand Afghan suns. His skin felt as if it was burning.

Then he saw it.

He saw Death.

And Death's red eyes stared back at him.

* * *

><p>'<em>Leewe-sarray….Leewe-sarray…Leewe-sarray…'<em>

* * *

><p>John woke two days later in Camp Bastion hospital. He was surrounded by a team of medical staff all talking in hushed voices to each other. When they actually noticed that John was awake, a young nurse sat on the edge of his bed.<p>

"Good evening Captain Watson, or do you prefer Doctor?"

"John. Call me John." He did recognise his own voice.

"John." She smiled kindly. "My name is Mary. What do you remember, John?"

John shook his head because he couldn't speak.

"You were attacked, John. By Taliban soldiers. I'm so sorry but…you were the only survivor."

"What about the boy?"

Mary frowned in confusion. "What boy, John?"

"The boy! Lemar! The young boy! He was there, he was –"

"Alright, John. Okay, it's alright. Calm down. There wasn't any boy there when we recov-rescued you." She smiled kindly. "Get some sleep, John. You'll need to rebuild your strength. That may take some months." She patted his arm gently before increasing the dose in his IV drip.

The last thing John saw before he was clouded by black was Mary's smiling face.

* * *

><p>'<em>Leewe-sarray….Leewe-sarray…Leewe-sarray…'<em>

* * *

><p>Many of the medics didn't expect John to be able to walk for months because of the severity of his physical and mental injuries. What they did not expect was for him to walk within two days of him awaking from the induced coma.<p>

Within the week most of his physical injuries had healed leaving no tissue scarring except for the original wound which was securely covered by a bandage. Within two weeks John was back on the front line and had practically no memory of 'the incident' as the other doctors called it.

On the third week he was once again on patrol, but this time he travelled through a town on the outskirts of Lashkar Gah. He was one of twenty-five soldiers and this time, he wasn't the commanding officer.

The town was almost as deserted as the village from three weeks ago, but John consoled himself by keeping in mind that there was safety in numbers. And with two fully equipped Challengers, John reasoned that they'd have to be suicidal to try and attack the patrol.

The thing about gunshots is that they sound nothing like Hollywood gunfire. It's not a deafening 'bang' like it is in films and television, no it's more like a low buzz that pierces the hot air. A noise that barely registers until the bullet itself is embedded in the flesh.

And then there's the pain. It's like a fire that builds and spreads across your entire body. Your body screams in agony in the only way it knows how, it spasms and convulses whilst your voice loses all control.

Your brain releases the endorphins in a futile attempt to calm you down and once that fails to work your brains releases DMT, the drug that makes you dream because your brain rationalises that you're probably not going to make it out of this one, so it gives you one last kick, a goodbye gift.

The noise that hit John's ears was not a bang, but more of a dull buzz, and then the fire spread across his chest originating from the wound from 'the incident'. He felt his body spasm before it connected with the desert floor. The screams he made were not human.

As he heard men act around him, his vision focused on the roof of one of the abandoned houses, where a young boy stood, weapon raised to his shoulder before lowering it slowly.

"Leewe-sarray!" The boy screamed.

'_Lemar…' _John's brain whispered through the incoherent screams.

John didn't see where the bullet came from, nor did he know who fired it but he saw the bullet hit Lemar. He saw the young boy's body rock backwards before tumbling forwards and onto the dusty ground.

As John's mind slowly faded into the blackness a cold chill ran through his body whilst he stared at the body of Lemar. Lemar's last words ran through his mind.

* * *

><p>'<em>Leewe-sarray…Leewe-sarray…Leewe-sarray…'<em>

* * *

><p><strong>The language I used is Pashto and is the most popular language in the Helmand province in Afghanistan. <strong>

**Just in case you were wondering :)**

**I'll reveal the meaning of Leewe-sarray soon…if you haven't guessed it already (;**


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